Chapter 9 #2
I turn to face him. The sun on his face is making him look even more handsome.
‘Yes, I am,’ I say, lifting my chin a little.
I find myself caught in his gaze and looking back at him, not immediately whipping my eyes away.
I don’t know when I last found a man attractive.
It hasn’t crossed my mind in years that I might find someone I fancied or, even more unlikely, that the feeling might be mutual.
It’s like a whole new world opening up before me and it feels very strange, but good – more than good, in fact.
It’s as if I’ve just boarded a rollercoaster at the fairground and am about to start the ride of my life, thrilling and exciting.
Me, Juliet, at forty-eight. I’m standing in a sunshine-filled room in France, with this man smiling at me as if something special is happening.
We stare at each other, small dust particles dancing like fairies in the shaft of light shining through the open window.
I look away first. I’m not sure how these things work.
He’s attractive, yes, but I have no idea how people go about starting the ball rolling.
The closest I’ve been to a date in years is Sunday-morning coffee at the garden centre.
‘Let’s go down,’ I say quickly, waving at the stairs.
‘Of course. I’d be delighted.’ I can feel him watching me as I head downstairs from the large, cavernous attic space, back to the main room of the mill.
Although we’ve met only once before, he’s here, interested in the mill, my plans, and possibly, dare I think, me.
And it really is a very long time since I’ve been looked at like that.
I give a little shiver, despite the sunshine outside.
‘This is the kitchen. It’s all kitted out. Just a bit old, neglected. But all the parts are working.’ I’m rambling. ‘And this is …’ I pull back the curtain.
‘Ah,’ he chuckles, ‘the bedroom.’
‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ I pull the curtain back to my small living quarters, the little living area with the wood-burning stove, and the wooden steps up to the mezzanine and my bedroom area.
‘I didn’t …’ Stop talking, Juliet. ‘It needs painting too. Lots of old markings on the wall, from the past. Messages of love, unreciprocated by the look of it. There’s a broken heart, and a name …
Bijounette, on the wall here in the bedroom.
It needs freshening, brightening up …’ Stop talking, Juliet!
‘Just some tender loving care, really.’ Stop!
He’s staring at me with an amused smile. Don’t look at his lips. I’m suddenly hot. What is wrong with me? I’m acting like an infatuated schoolgirl.
‘Would you,’ I clear my throat, ‘like some coffee?’
‘ Merci . That would be excellent,’ he says. ‘And I brought you a baguette. I didn’t know if you had had time to get out and I want you to like my bread enough to buy it for your salon de thé .’ He points to a baguette he’s placed on the counter.
‘Thank you. I hadn’t planned on serving baguettes. It will be mostly cakes, sausage rolls, that kind of thing,’ I say.
‘But a baguette, it is the sign of being in France, non ? You are not in the UK now. You are here in France. You need to be a little more French. Not so nervous. Enjoy what we have.’
He’s right. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To enjoy what France has to offer. I chew my bottom lip.
He turns back to the big room, taking it all in.
‘ Oui ,’ I say. I’m not feeling like the teenage girl now, more of a woman who has lived life and knows what she wants.
A confidence I have never experienced before.
A need to feel wanted and to be desired.
‘I’ll make coffee. Have a look around.’ I hold out a hand to the room, then turn back to the kitchen work surfaces and put on the kettle.
I catch a glimpse of Claude as I pull out small coffee cups and saucers from the shelf under the worktop.
His hands are behind his back as he paces around the room.
I find myself snatching glances at him and, to my delight, he’s doing the same to me.
I have a strange giddy feeling inside me.
But it’s pleasant. I like it. Like a holiday that’s just begun with endless possibilities for relaxation and laughter.
‘You’ve done a lot already. I hardly recognise it. This place holds lots of memories.’
‘So I’m told,’ I say, thinking of Laurent’s words, pushing the irritation of his visit to the back of my mind, determined not to give him head space.
‘We used to come here as teenagers.’ He runs his hand along the clean wall.
‘This was where we would hang out … come to the lake, when the mill was quiet. And now, it looks like it’s got a whole new lease of life.
’ He flashes me another of his smiles and my stomach does the flip I remember from years ago, but which seems refreshingly new.
When I first went on holiday with my friends, I developed a huge crush on the barman at the resort in Spain for the way he looked at me.
By the time our coach was pulling away from the hotel, the next was pulling in and Juan was making his move on another young woman who fell for his charms. His promises to stay in touch and visit were as fanciful as he was fanciable.
It was soon after that I met Pete. Safe and reliable Pete.
And that’s just what he’s been. We had seen each other at school, but only became acquainted when we were pushed together by friends.
And it’s been a wonderful twenty-five years of marriage.
Dependable. We made all the right moves along the way, hit all the right notes.
Marriage, house, kids, sliding into early retirement.
I just wasn’t ready for that bit. Right now I need some excitement, to feel alive.
It’s like I’ve been eating vanilla ice cream all these years and suddenly discovered salted caramel. Different, exciting, more layered.
‘I’m planning to keep the walls plain,’ I say, with rising conviction for my vision, ‘but with lots of bunting, greenery and cushions.’ I spoon coffee into the cafetière.
‘And the mill’s workings?’ He points to the large flat millstones and cogs.
Although I’ve started to clean them, there is still a lot to be done. ‘I’m not sure. I was thinking of making a feature of them. On the other hand, I could get a lot more tables in if they were taken out.’
‘I agree. There is little sense in keeping them. They’re not even attractive.’ He smiles. ‘Unlike present company, of course.’
My stomach does a triple somersault.
I left the UK aware that something was waiting for me.
The excitement of not knowing what tomorrow would bring.
I came out here for fun, to feel alive, to prove to myself that I could do anything I set my mind to.
I came for an adventure and that’s what I’m going to have!
I’m not a young woman any more. Who knows when I might feel desired again?
This is fun. The way he says my name, it’s as if I’m the only woman he’s ever spoken to like this.
I know I’m not but, right now, it’s wonderful to feel so … seen.
Claude walks towards me as I reach for the coffee pot.
He puts his hand over mine, and I stop. I hadn’t thought about taking this any further than some flirtatious banter.
He draws my hand away from the coffee and holds it.
‘How about we forget coffee? Let’s have wine …
’ he says, and indicates the bottle I have on the sideboard – I bought it from a local vineyard on my day out at the brocantes .
I smile and even laugh. ‘Well, as long as that’s all it is!’ I joke. This is going a little quicker than I’m comfortable with.
‘But of course. New friends and neighbours getting to know each other. Should they not?’ He plants a kiss on the back of my hand.
It doesn’t excite me like his earlier interest had.
But he’s right. We are just getting to know each other and that’s nice.
It’s been a long time since I’ve made new friends and enjoyed a drink with someone who wants to talk to me.
It’s just a glass of wine, I tell myself. It’s just making friends.
‘Why not?’ I say, feeling bolder again. Isn’t this what I wanted? ‘And how about lunch?’ I hold up the baguette. ‘I have cheese.’
‘ Du vin, du pain, du fromage? Parfait! ’ he says, and we load a tray with bread, cheese and tomatoes and take it outside onto the lawn, where I spread a blanket from my bed.
It isn’t long before I discover that sitting on a blanket on the ground isn’t half as comfortable as I thought it would be.
In fact, it’s not comfy at all! So we move to sit on the fallen tree trunk, throwing the blanket over it and putting the tray on a chair from inside.
And there we sit, beside the lake. It feels so nice to be with someone who actually wants to know about me.
‘So here you are, in France, starting a new life. Are there things you wish you’d done differently, before now?’ he asks, sipping the wine.
I look out across the lake. ‘I suppose I wish I’d been more spontaneous. Done what excited me sooner. Not left it until now. I wish I’d said yes more in life and not been nervous. Life’s short.’ I turn to look at him, his face closer to mine.
‘You are a very beautiful woman,’ he says suddenly. And, like the kiss on my hand, it doesn’t quite land where I want it to. It feels a little forced.
Despite the wine, the sunshine and my joie de vivre , I’m not sure that this is how I wanted the conversation to go. Flirting is uncharted territory and seems to be heading in a direction I’m not sure I’m ready for.
‘You have very beautiful eyes,’ he says, taking my wine glass from me and putting it on the ground.
I think he’s expecting me to respond to this in some way, but I don’t move.
He reaches up and touches my curls, which grew back after I lost my hair.
He clearly has a practised routine. He moves his face a little closer to mine and I can’t decide if I want to kiss him or not.
I wonder what it would feel like to kiss another man after all these years of only kissing Pete.
‘Beautiful lips too. Like they are made for kissing,’ he says, and I suddenly get an urge to giggle and tell him his chat-up lines are pretty cheesy.
But on the other hand, why shouldn’t I kiss a man I find attractive?
Isn’t that what people do, these days? Hook up?
But I’m not sure I find him attractive any more.
I pull back and pick up my glass. ‘Erm, look … I don’t usually …’
He raises an eyebrow, along with a little corner of his mouth. ‘You don’t usually sleep with men who come visiting bringing baguettes?’
And this time I laugh. The thought of sleeping with a stranger is a long way from where I’m at. I was flattered by the flirtation, but I’m not going to jump into bed with him. It’s been a while. And, of course, I have a scar.
‘You are embarrassed?’ he asks. ‘It is just making the most of life.’
‘Well …’ I say, sipping my wine. I’m reminded of a line from Shirley Valentine. Intimacy for Pete and me was Saturday night after Britain’s Got Talent and birthdays. In the comfort of our bed.
‘You do not find me attractive?’ he asks matter-of-factly.
‘Well, yes. You’re very attractive.’
‘Then why should we not do this?’ he says, and kisses me. For a second or two, I let his lips sit on mine, just to know how it feels.